striding

around the faces gathered in the center of the room. Her expression made plain just how sloppily and carelessly she thought men would keep important records.
When her eyes came to Rebecca, Melissa’s frown deepened. The young Jewish refugee, hands clasped nervously in her lap, was sitting on the edge of her seat. Her chair was pushed back several feet from the circle.
Melissa stood up and pointed her finger imperiously to a spot next to her own chair. “Young woman,” she stated, “you move that chair here. Right now.”
If Rebecca had any difficulty with Melissa’s Boston accent—still as pronounced as ever, after all these years—she gave no sign of it. Hastily, like a thousand schoolgirls before her, she obeyed the voice of command.
Melissa bestowed the smile upon her. “Attagirl. Remember: United we stand, divided we fall.”
Melissa sniffed at the men. “Do something useful, why don’t you?” She pointed to a row of long tables lining the back wall. “Move those together into the center of the room. Make a big conference table out of them. Then push these silly desks away and go get us some real chairs. Ed’ll show you where they are. We’ll be meeting here from now on, I imagine. May as well set things up properly.”
She turned away, briskly striding toward a cabinet. “I, meanwhile, will demonstrate the marvels of modern technology.” Over her ­shoulder, with a snort: “Stenography.

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